


My Skin

by aiwaguru



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiwaguru/pseuds/aiwaguru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the one where Sherlock is trying to cope with his feelings for John, and John just isn't able to say things straight. It doesn't help that Sherlock seems to be misreading John all the time.</p><p>Sherlock has always been different, and he learned to accept that, it was just logical to do so. However, he can't understand what his body and heart want most of the time.</p><p>Song-fic to Natalie Merchant's My Skin</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this after watching [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5oLoRpt9LU)  
> I recommend watching it before reading the fic.
> 
> Thank you so much to Manon for her beautiful graphics <3 love you lots <3

 

 

  
[](http://s16.photobucket.com/user/aiwaGURU/media/MySkin1_zps7a502745.png.html) 

 

_Take a look at my body_  
 _Look at my hands_  
 _There's so much here_  
 _That I don't understand_

 

 

Sherlock’s brain worked much better than anyone else’s, thank you very much. It was a conclusion he reached quite early in his life, back when after years of home-schooling and isolation he started secondary school and was acquainted with the wider masses for the very first time. Along with that illuminating thought came the realization that he was utterly alone in the world. No one was like him, thus no one could understand him. No one would ever be other than insupportably boring to him.

Soon after that first epic deduction there was the rebellion. Not exactly like those punks at school who thought they could fight the system. It was much more than that and quite as destructive. He was trying to go against his body, that dirty entity that betrayed his mind and made him wish for things that could never be. How could **it** long for a connection when **he** knew very well there could be none?

So there he was now, an adult, a human being at the best of his brain development, but in possess of a body he had rejected a long time ago and still had no notion about. And the world he could see so clearly was filled with people fussing over things that meant nothing to his highly logical mind.

His body, **it**  was his personal cage, his condemnation, and all he had always implicitly wanted was to find a permanent escape from these pathetic feelings linked to his flesh.

He knew now it was impossible.

He had tried self-destruction with quite an effort in the past, but it only resulted in making his body an even more needy wreck. And ironically, his mind could not bear wasting his only life time either.

Teenager years had been troubled, his young adulthood a haze of drugs, but he grew out of that, victim of his own personal evolution, and he found some sort of balance. It went a lot with ignoring urges really, with controlling himself and the world around him to the smallest itch, eventually, he got so used to practicing insensitivity that he didn’t have to act anymore.

Funny how things **really** had gotten easier once he was an adult.

Funny how everything went out the window the moment he realized he was in love with John Watson. John Watson of all people! It didn’t make any sense, of course. Objectively there was nothing special about him, and Sherlock hadn’t even realized he  **wanted**  a friend until he already had him.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t have friends, he had only one.

And now he was in love with that very friend. No doubt it was just a trick of his body reaching out to adapt to what he had been taught were traditional bindings, but it was unexpected and unwelcome, he had never wanted a relationship, and to yearn for one with his only friend was just mad. 

Apparently he was craving for a connection after so many years of void and, he had to admit, he had never thought that need would ever come back. He sincerely believed he had got over **hope** years ago.

So here he was, a stranger to a body and heart that were begging him to hug, kiss, cuddle and fuck. A stranger to love and ready for rejection. There could be nothing else after all. His body was just a cold cage, how could it appeal to anyone?

 

 

 _Your face saving promises_  
Whispered like prayers  
I don't need them

 

 

The main problem was John’s personality really. He was just so… lovable. He had come into the life of a sociopath and accepted him without putting up a fight.

Sherlock was used to rejection, he usually got rejection even before trying to get close to someone, some would say it was what he sought for, and he liked to believe that as well, it made things easier in his head. He  **wanted** to believe that as well. Because that way it wouldn’t hurt.

John never rejected him. Never even dreamt of it. He complained surely, but he was more entertained by his antics than anything else.

The few times he had seen him truly annoyed, it was because he had been too far from Sherlock to help him. And Sherlock did try to keep him at a distance, so he had a point.

If he really looked at John, if he stared into his face as if to bear a hole in between his eyebrows, he could just see possibilities, promises of a better future, he could see himself accepted and loved.

He didn’t need that. He didn’t want to hope for something that, logically, could never happen.

It just didn’t make sense that it would.

 

 

 _I've been treated so wrong_  
I've been treated so long  
As if I'm becoming untouchable

 

 

“Just… don’t…” he was surprised at how pathetic he sounded, stepping back from John’s touch. It did things to him that he really didn’t want to acknowledge. 

The doctor looked up at him with that annoying squint, as if trying to add things up in his head and failing miserably. That look scared Sherlock, it made him feel like John would eventually figure him out.

“Sherlock, I need to check that wound…” he sounded professional if not for the hint of worry that wouldn’t really become a soldier.

“It’s just a scratch; we have more important matters to deal with.” He replied stubborn, and they did, he was sure they did, but his brain seemed to be seizing up with electricity at the moment and he could concentrate on nothing. Damn those warm fingers. And how fast they had been insinuating under his shirt! John hadn’t even asked for permission! His skin was tingling all over and he was quite sure it wasn’t because of the blood that was rushing out of his wound.

It wasn’t a scratch. But he wasn’t going to be forced into another moment of painful longing by those fingers, those eyes.

It was just ridiculous.

John wasn’t that stupid though. And for a moment Sherlock told himself it was all his fault for accepting him as a flatmate, he should have gotten Lestrade, he would have been much easier to fool.

“Now you are lying down and you are letting me stitch that,” John looked at him sternly, his hands on his hips.

Sherlock winced; he hated it when John dished out the nerve of steel face. It was arousing. And it really didn’t help that Sherlock just wanted to do whatever he was asked when he heard that tone. He ignored that urge and looked at him, challenging.

“Now, Sherlock.”

He shivered, but stood his ground.

“I am going to tie you up if you don’t comply.”

And for the love of God, he was smirking. The bastard. Sherlock considered the possibilities. Possibility to get caught with an embarrassing hard-on if he complied now: 50%. If restraining was involved: 99.9%.

“Fine,” he snapped, moving towards the couch and ignoring the pain on his side. Maybe he was worse off than he figured; it was always so hard to understand his body.

"Nu-uh, take your shirt off first."

"Is it necessary?" he asked, trying to sound as annoyed as he wanted to be. No doubt John was by now wondering why he was being such a baby.

"Unless you want me to stitch the fabric to your skin," he muttered gathering his advanced first aid kit; he was sure some of the things in there were quite illegal to keep at home. Not that he’d care. He kept plenty of illegal things in the flat, it was just surprising how John had easily adapted to that.

Sherlock knew John was very good at his job, but it struck him again as he looked at him working. The doctor knew what was under his shirt even before he was laying half naked on the couch. 

He also knew how to deal with him, which was something not a lot of people could brag about. Probably nobody.

However, to notice all this was just making things harder, it was almost overwhelming to see how good John was and how small he felt in comparison. In the heat of that thought he couldn't help but cover his eyes with his arm, turning away, he just could not watch his body getting touched by John, by any one. 

It would hurt, he was sure.

"I am not going to hurt you, you know very well..." John said at some point, answering his thoughts, reading his posture as he was applying the anaesthetic.

Sherlock huffed in reply. "I know that perfectly well."

"Then what is it? I would say you are scared of doctors if you didn't look almost... disgusted...” he frowned at that. “Am I supposed to feel offended? I cleaned up before this, you know," he was joking, but he was also making sure it wasn't another strange side of the detective, it probably wouldn't be a surprise to know he hated touching, that it was even abominable to him, but somehow Sherlock felt it would hurt him if he agreed. It was in the way John wasn't really looking his way, concentrated in the details of what he was doing, while still waiting for a reply.

Sherlock laughed a bit, gasping when John’s hand pressed on his chest to keep him still. "Quite self-centered, are you?" he whispered, closing his eyes tight.

He realized too late he had said too much.

John looked up: "Well, if it's not me, then it must be-"  _You._

He took a good look at Sherlock sprawled under his hands, his posture, it felt as if he was assessing his value. Then he sighed, in a way that made Sherlock's heart clench in his chest.

"I know what it feels like, you know," he said then, and Sherlock wanted to scoff at that, but his heart was stuck in his throat. "To feel like you are untouchable."

The detective refused to move, insistently looking away.

"But you aren't. You just aren't."

And if he took extra care that night in cleaning and bandaging the wound, if he caressed Sherlock's skin like it was something precious, he did not comment, too engrossed in his own emotional turmoil.

 

 

 _Contempt loves the silence_  
It thrives in the dark  
With fine winding tendrils  
That strangle the heart

 

 

Sherlock’s lips were pursed shut for three days after John slept with random girl number five.  He knew it was bound to happen at some point, John was an adult, and he was not socially inept like him, he was able to embrace his sexuality freely and he surely didn’t need to ask for Sherlock’s permission.

He didn’t even **tell** Sherlock. Sherlock just deduced it.

He feared it was going to happen when he noticed John was not back at the usual time. The confirmation was all over his friend’s attire when he stumbled in the door. His hair were rumpled, his clothes a mess, and he stubbornly hid his gaze from the detective.

He didn’t  **need**  to see his eyes to know that he had fucked her.

Sherlock was smart enough to act, play the part, put on his mask.

He was his usual self, at least for that night. Even though he felt like he was dying inside. As if his heart was held in a painful grip he could not fight. He had never really dealt with so much pain, and all he could do was turn silent.

He held his contempt inside.

As if he had any right to be angry or feel betrayed!

He was jealous, too. To him sex was a very big deal, the greatest deal possibly, and knowing a girl he couldn’t even remember the name of had been rewarded with that kind of intimacy from John, well, that was undoing him completely.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“You are silent,” John said the next day, it only took him a few hours to notice. 

“There are no cases,” He replied simply, pursuing his lips in a tense line as he watched outside the window.

“Still.”

“If you have a point, say it out loud, otherwise just make some tea will you, you are boring me,” he muttered quickly.

John rolled his eyes, and as if convinced nothing had changed, went on his merry life, oblivious to the damage.

 

 

 _They say that promises_  
Sweeten the blow  
But I don't need them  
No, I don't need them

 

 

Things were quickly deteriorating. John’s attentions only made things painful. He would get angry, he would snap and then he would sulk in his room alone. Alone and lonely, knowing John was going to run out of his life soon enough.

It is how things work, there is always a beginning and there is always an end, no contract would keep them together.

Life was cruel though. Life was pure irony.

The way John looked at him, by the pool, his life in danger, his life put on the line just to save Sherlock. It was a promise all of its own.

It was undying love that would unfold and last forever. An illusion that only adrenaline could create.

Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands after all was done, checked for his pulse, checked that he was still alive and real.

John was looking at him, panting, he thought Sherlock was the king of the world.

He didn’t need that.

John stood there unmoving, he let Sherlock check every part of him. He just repeated he was fine, and even smiled, relieved, reaching out his arms and grabbing his shoulders in a tight hug. It lasted longer than it should have, but it hurt to pull away nonetheless.

“I shall keep a closer eye on you, Watson,” he joked, punching his shoulder just slightly.

“Maybe you should. Yeah, you should.” And he could not tell what he really meant by that, not when his hair were ruffled and his gaze was still so adoring, scared, and so alive.

He didn’t need that.

Not when they survived and John went off to a new date. He didn’t sleep with her, not yet. But it was going to happen.

 

 

 _I've been treated so wrong_  
I've been treated so long  
As if I'm becoming untouchable

 _I'm a slow dying flower_  
Frost killing hour  
The sweet turning sour  
And untouchable

 

 

He waited for it. And when John didn't come to his summon for the first time and left him in the freezing cold of February, waiting for him, he was sure it was happening.

He stood there in front of Scotland Yard for what felt like ages, his whole body cold, his hands numb.

He didn't understand.

He thought John would never give up a case for a girl. He would have sworn on it just the day before. 

And now it felt like they ripped a part of him out.

It didn't hurt though. He was too cold to feel hurt.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He came home very late that night, only partially satisfied by the apprehended murderer. It didn't feel the same without John's compliments.

It also went a bit airy without him. Testimony of that was the black eye he was sporting.

He still didn't feel the pain, his face completely numb for the biting cold.

Irony was, John was right there when he arrived in Baker Street, he was pacing the street nervously, passing their front door over and over, as if preparing for something big, a fight maybe. Strange considering they never really did anything but banter.

"Had a fun night?" He asked once he was close enough.

John jumped, surprised. "Sherlock! Bloody hell! You're here!"

“Correct. So are you,” he pointed out coldly. He really felt like he had no feelings at all. He did notice John was thoroughly pissed though, his nose ridiculously red.

“I thought you were inside, you know, doing one of your things…” he muttered, using his hands way too much.

Sherlock had to wonder why he was so embarrassed about this conversation. “Evidently, I am not. I have just gotten back from Wimbledon, lovely neighbourhood, you would have liked it,” he muttered, taking his keys out, not looking at John frowning at him.

“I would have- what?” he was clearly confused.

“Was having too much fun to check your phone?” he insisted, wondering if he had some jealousy left in that big pile of numbness.

It dawned on John slowly, understandable considering the inebriation. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just following Sherlock in their apartment, wobbling a bit as he watched him sit by his laptop, turning the nearest socket on.

He threw something on the table, then.

Sherlock looked at it on passing, but started back when he noticed what it was.

“I am sorry she hurt you,” he heard himself saying, flashes of whatever had happened going off in his head. He was putting all the pieces of the puzzle together.

She got angry.

She trashed John’s phone.

She dumped him.

John went to drink his pain away.

John never got his message.

It made much more sense now, and he felt a bit stupid, sometimes he really didn’t  **think** when it came to John.

“She didn’t.” John muttered, sitting down on his armchair. “That’s the problem…” he added under his breath, and Sherlock wasn’t sure the doctor wanted him to know he had heard him say that.

He wasn’t sure what to do really, this kind of things he knew nothing of. Relationships were something quite inconspicuous for him and he had never cared to know how to comfort people unless it was for a case.

“I cannot pretend to understand what your current situation is, John. But if it makes you feel better, I am sure you will find someone suitable sooner or later,” he muttered, looking at the screen of his laptop as it turned on, trying to distract himself.

He heard John gasp.

“You’re hurt!” he exclaimed, standing up again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Brilliant deduction. Except I am not, it’s just a scratch.”

John laughed bitterly. “Last time you said that I had to stitch you.”

He sighed. “Not the same. It was just a punch. It’ll be gone in a few days. Besides, there is no way you would be able to do anything considering the state you are in. You’d probably just make it worse.”

“The state I am in..?” John was angry now, so much Sherlock spared him a look. His hands were balled into fists. “I am perfectly capable of doing my job.”

“You are drunk, and angry.” He stated calmly. “And I have to add, angry with the wrong person. You were not the one getting stood up.”

He should have never said that.

John was blistering. “Aren’t you the biggest ass-“

He looked at the doctor with silent disapproval. “It is common knowledge I am. Have you noticed just now?”

“Common knowledge my foot, you are-“ he was groaning, trying to find the right word. “You are-“

Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I am... what? A sociopath? A freak? A psychopath? A brat? A jerk? Come on John, tell me what it is. You want to say I am untouchable maybe? It would be fitting, not to mention smart of you.” 

_If you wanted to hurt me._

John seemed taken aback by that, clearly not expecting Sherlock’s pained words, he had never considered he could get through to him in any way. It made him think, it made him wonder. And then he reached an unfathomable conclusion.

“You are impossible,” he finally said, stepping closer, cupping his cheeks, pressing their lips together.

It was so quick and hot, Sherlock lost his breath and could not even respond.

Why was this happening? It didn’t make  **any**  sense.

John’s lips were soft, they were just like him, confident and sweet.

“One moment you are cold,” John whispered, kissing him again, Sherlock finally parting his lips, finally returning the sweet pressure. He had no idea it was so easy, and pleasurable nonetheless. “The next you are warm and needy,” he bit his lower lip softly, Sherlock surprised even himself with a pleasure-filled groan. “You are going to make me crazy,” he added finally, burying his hands in the detective’s hair, pulling him closer.

It surely wasn't the most comfortable position for Sherlock, arching up from the chair just so to be able to receive those kisses, but there was no way he would ever complain.   
It was amazing, passionate in a way he didn't think he could manage to withhold.

Where had it been hidden inside him, he had no idea.

 

 

 _Oh, I need_  
The darkness  
The sweetness  
The sadness  
The weakness  
Oh, I need this

 _I need_  
A lullaby  
A kiss goodnight  
Angel sweet  
Love of my life  
Oh, I need this

 

Sherlock’s hand was grasped tightly when they broke apart, he was pulled to his feet and up the stairs. The detective was clearly panicking as he followed John, but the doctor didn’t really realize, he wasn’t that observant, not when liquor was in his veins.

His detective skills were avoiding him, he didn’t even think about taking John's pulse, like he always did, he was just too busy wondering what was going to happen and how he could avoid failing miserably at it.

When the bedroom’s door clicked closed behind them, there was a gloomy silence in between them.

“You want this,” John said, looking straight at him in the dark, but it sounded like a question.

Sherlock swallowed hard. “It seems like you finally made a correct deduction,” he replied, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.

John laughed. “Don’t make it sound like you don’t then, will you…”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, wondering what he was supposed to do.

“Do you even  **know**  what you are doing… what  **we**  are doing…”

“Knowing things is understated… I could deduce them as we go.”

“Sounds like a plan,” John muttered with a half-smile, and he stepped closer again, looking at him as he started undoing the buttons of his shirt.

One by one.

Slowly.

Sherlock stood still for a while, not knowing where to start, torn in between all the things he wanted to do and say at the same time.

John didn't seem to mind really, he was looking at him with some sort of blissful desire Sherlock had never seen on anyone.

He was trembling once his shirt slid off his shoulders and this time, it certainly wasn't for the cold.

"You really have no idea, have you?"

Sherlock looked at him confused, quite distracted by John's hands stroking his chest as if it was deliciously smooth.

"Of what?"

"How attractive you are..."

Sherlock scoffed. "Does beer make you delusional other than horny?"

John laughed: "I can't believe you've never noticed."

“I have read many articles on the consequences of heavy drinking, but I did not think you were that far off the ladder…”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you’ve never noticed how attractive you are, Sherlock.”

He bit his lip, looking at John's hands, taking in an unsteady breath when they circled his nipples. "I do not see what I am supposed to notice, John. The only person ever interested in me is someone who works in the morgue, I do not deem being considered better than a corpse a compliment."

There was a lot left unsaid there, the past, Sherlock’s past, the way no one really wanted to be close to him, for one reason or the other.

John just seemed to understand with no need to ask.

"You are an idiot sometimes." But it didn't feel like an insult, considering he said it while kissing up Sherlock's neck.

"Is it always like that?" He asked, his knees felt so weak.

"What is?" the doctor looked up.

"The talking... Do people always talk while they have-" Be damned if he could not find the words. "…You know." Because he clearly was not able to.

John stopped his hands. "They have what, Sherlock?"

Teasing bastard.

He swallowed hard. "Sex, when they have sex." He was not amused.

John snuggled his forehead against the other man's chin. "Is that what we are doing?"

"It would seem so. Am I wrong?"

"Sex can be a lot of different things, Sherlock."

He was genuinely surprised. "Can it?"

"Oh yeah, ever noticed how big the porno industry is? Did you think they got that way doing one thing over and over?"

"You have a point."

John was still looking at him, he seemed to want to ask something, but then he refrained, for which Sherlock was grateful. It was already humiliating enough not to know what to do, not to mention **feeling** this insecure, the last thing he wanted was to voice how inexperienced he was.

“We should start slowly…” John muttered, leaning up to kiss him again.

“If we go any slower, I might drop dead.” Sherlock protested.

John bit his lower lip not to laugh again. “Well, you could start saving time by helping me undress, for starters.”

Sherlock blinked. “Did I receive permission to do that?”

“I think you did, yes.”

He reached out his hands confidently.

This, he could do. It surely wasn’t harder that taking his own clothes off, just a bit more exciting.

When said clothes were off though, his own trousers and pants down, he felt a bit of dread burning in his chest. 

He didn’t want to show himself.

However, he was too distracted by looking at John’s perfect body to protest in any way.

Objectively speaking, it was far from wonderful, the scars, the posture, but god, he loved every little thing, and his fingers were trembling as he touched the skin adoringly.

He didn’t even realize the silence until John broke it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” He whispered, and he could hear the blush even in his voice.

“I do not know how else to look at you.” And he sincerely had no idea what expression he was wearing at the moment, he was lost, as if there wasn’t a real connection between him and his body.

Except that there was and he was feeling everything ten times more than usual, he just couldn't control it.

John winced at his reply, but Sherlock somehow knew it was not a bad thing because the way he kissed him after that, God, he had no idea they could even get better at this.

He didn’t even realize how they got to lay on the bed, they just were, John slowly sliding against him.

And good gracious, was that John’s cock sliding along his thigh?

He shivered when there was no space left between them, and he just never stopped.

His body shook like a leaf as it fit against John’s.

It moved, it thrust.

They were a mess of sweat and limbs, but they were soon in a rhythm, natural and pleasure-filled.

Again something he had no idea he could do, but he’d be damned if he stopped to think about it now. 

Sherlock literally saw stars when he came, it hit him like a wave and for a moment he was reminded of his cocaine days, except when he came down from it, he was not cranky and needy, he was utterly and perfectly satisfied.

Not bored.

For once.

Just happy. 

“Ahoovg-you.” John said something against his skin.

“I hope that was not important, because there is no way I can understand what you say when you are buried in my shoulder.”

God, what a nice image. He just wanted to remember this forever, it'd be enough, wouldn't it?

He was smiling like he never did before, he realized it when he saw John look at him from where he was laying his head on his shoulder. He wondered how long he had been staring.

“Nah,” He muttered, shaking his head. “You will figure it out eventually, without me needing to embarrass myself further.”

Sherlock laughed. “I think we have crossed the being embarrassed line quite a while ago.”

“We did, didn’t we.” His hand on Sherlock’s hip, just cuddling him.

“I am not sure there is much more I could expose.”

John smiled enigmatic. “There is Sherlock, trust me.”

That made him think, about all the ways he could be weak for John. The doctor surely had no idea how bare he was now though, because  **this** was more than he had ever given anyone before. 

His train of thought turned into a deep sleep in a matter of a few minutes.

 

 

_I'm a slow dying flower_

_Frost killing hour_

_The sweet turning sour_

_And untouchable_

 

 

They forgot to turn the heating on. Sherlock woke up the next day with numb feet and hands. His body felt heavy when he stirred, he turned around to see that John had curled away in a corner far from him.

He frowned, remembering the day before, a taste of sour in his mouth. 

That was quite the lapse of concentration on his part.

He sat up and rushed to the bathroom.

He felt so weird.  It was like a huge weight had been heaved from his shoulders, but at the same time his heart was throbbing painfully in his chest.

What had gotten into him really? How could he fool himself even though the taste of beer in their kisses?

He raked his mind, how did they call that…

_Rebound sex._

How convenient to remember only the morning after.

He took a quick shower, trying hard not to feel sorry for himself. He had much more important things to worry about, he was sure. The world was waiting outside for him, just for him to put some order into it.

No matter the mess he had inside.

There was so much he could not understand, so much that was tugging at his heart. It was especially hard to ignore the shame he felt, knowing how bad it must have been for John. What with his constant trembling, his inexperience, his nervous talking and insecurities.

That hadn’t been Sherlock Holmes.

He never wanted to be that person again.

As untouchable as that made him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When John woke up that day, he was surely confused, that much was clear by the way he dragged himself downstairs and looked at Sherlock in silence.

“What is it?” asked the detective, sipping his tea as he checked his mail.

John was clearly wondering whether he had dreamt the whole thing. Sherlock wished he did, because he really didn’t want to remember it with fondness, or want, or need.

“Lestrade is waiting for us at the morgue, a whole new case,” he said, feigning enthusiasm as he stood up. “Do you reckon you can deal with your hangover/broken heart and come to work?”

The doctor glared at him for a long moment before he actually spoke. “I need a shower.”

“You do, pretty badly I might add.” He slid his coat on. “How about you meet us there? I cannot promise I will keep the best bits for you.”

“I do not expect that.” There was something strangely cold in his voice.

“Well then,” He muttered as means of goodbye, walking away, schooling his features as much as possible.

He did not look at John as he passed him, afraid of what he would see if he did.

 

 

 _Do you remember the way_  
That you touched me before  
All the trembling sweetness  
I loved and adored?

 

It was a three-days chase at the end, not a single moment to wonder about what was in his heart.

Quite the case, Sherlock had to admit. And it was great to have John back, regardless of the tension that flew between them at times.

They seemed to be both determined to make it seem like nothing had changed, and he was grateful for that.

Lives were at stake after all, it was all much more important than two friends sleeping together once.

It hadn’t even been real sex, he tried to tell himself.

 

~~~

 

They ran into Baker street that last night, like the first day they met, stopping against the wall behind their door just to catch their breath and laugh at each other’s jokes.

“Blasted sniper. For a moment I thought Moriarty was back.”

“He probably had something to do with it.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“He should be ashamed of it by now, the guy was a complete git, advices or not, he should choose his clients a bit better.”

“Are you saying he should learn from you?”

“Everyone should learn from me. It would be a better world.”

“Except that the sun would turn around the earth.”

And they exchanged a smirk.

It was then that it hit Sherlock pretty hard, the longing, the need, the memories.

Against all odds he wished he could have a chance.

“Please Sherlock... Tell me I didn’t imagine it.” Were John’s words, and he was serious now. There was something in his voice, making him sound utterly miserable when he talked again. "Please."

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say, eventually he decided to stick to his original plan. “The beer.”

“Damn the beer!” shouted John, angry. “I was not that pissed.”

The detective sighed. “What am I supposed to say? That I am sorry? I guess that is the usual way to go after taking advantage of a broken hearted friend.”

John frowned. “How on earth can you even say this kind of bullshit without a blink! It is beyond me,” he muttered. “Do you realize you are not supposed to lie right now? That this, this is too important?”

“This is preposterous, Watson,  **you**  think you can tell when I am lying?” he scoffed, affronted.

“No, I usually can’t. But now, about that, I know, I am sure, I was not  **that**  drunk,” he muttered with confidence, even though it seemed like he wanted some sort of reassurance.

“Why do you ask me for confirmation if you are so sure about what happened?” he bit back.

John’s hands were balled into fists again. “Because I don’t want to do anything you don’t want. I don’t want to force you into anything… because maybe if you are acting like nothing happened is because you want it to be that way, because you want to forget about it, and who am I to argue with that? I cannot force you to feel something for me."

Sherlock blinked. He was bad about things regarding relationships and such, but John had seemed to understand it all wrong.

“I…” he paused, trying to think. “Let’s go upstairs, okay? We do not want to wake Mrs. Hudson.”

John didn’t reply, but ran upstairs two steps at a time nonetheless, almost slamming their door open.

 

 

 _Your face saving promises_  
Whispered like prayers  
I don't need them  
No, I don't need them

 

“You do realize this doesn’t make any sense," Sherlock exclaimed as he walked into the room, John was pacing around his armchair.

“You don’t bloody make sense. You must be bipolar, I swear.”

“High functioning sociopath.”

“No… that… does not fit…” he muttered, stopping in his track. “That cannot be true when you tremble under my fingers, Sherlock.”

Words failed him for a moment, so he did notice! Of course, how could he not? He probably felt like he had been bringing to bed a Parkinson patient.

“Bipolar then," he tried, throwing his coat aside, nervous. "I guess it makes more sense in your head… I would call it more schizophrenia however.” He sighed. “There is just this part of me.” He pointed at his body. “That I do not understand, that I cannot control, no matter how much I try.”

“Is that what it really is then? Psychiatric crap aside. Is that what happened? Lust? You wanted to get off?” John sounded defensive now.

Sherlock stared at him. “What do you want me to say John? Whatever I say now is going to wreck our friendship completely.”

“Don’t you see it’s too late for that?” he groaned, burying his head in his hands.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

He had nothing to lose. Again.

“It is  **not**  just Lust. Lust I felt when I was a teenager, with all those crazy hormones, I had to fight that somehow… if not for the simple fact that no one would come close to me… it was not a joke when I said Molly is the only one who ever was remotely interested, they all get scared away! And sincerely enough, better that way, I do not have time to deal with emotions and whatever people worry themselves with. I was perfectly okay with the world until  **you**  came around. I have never wanted anything more from life, until you waltzed in my life and forced me to  **feel**.”

John was gaping by then. “Is that your twisted way of confessing a romantic interest?” he had to ask.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Sod off!”

That surprised John even more. “You mean you don’t know what I…?”

“Bloody hell Watson, are you speaking in riddles now?” he snapped, he was going crazy here.

“Well, you like those things.”

“I am not amused.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Then he realized something had changed. Why was John not angry anymore? His shoulders had relaxed, his eyes were not pinched any more.

Something he said must have satisfied him. The confession?  
Was he happy about Sherlock’s interest?

“Oh.”

John laughed. “Wow, that’s the longest it took you to deduce something. Am I that bad an influence on you?”

 

 

 _I need_  
The darkness  
The sweetness  
The sadness  
The weakness  
I need this

 _I need_  
A lullaby  
A kiss goodnight  
The angel sweet  
Love of my life  
Oh, I need this

 

 

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Why do you never say things straight when it's something important, John?” he asked.

The doctor sighed, pushing his hands in his pockets, nervously. “My therapist says I have trust issues." he tried to joke with a soft shrug. "Why does a guy drink usually?”

The detective shook his head. “I should have known. God I really lost my mind.”

“I just wanted the courage to tell you.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I know now.” He said, taking in a deep breath, things were clear and vivid in his head now.

 Those feelings felt like some sort of miracle, especially returned, but he finally understood what had gone wrong.

“Thank you.” He seemed relieved.

They looked at each other.

“What happens now?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” John was amused again.

“I have no idea.” He confessed with a laugh.

“I trust you won’t be bored then.”

“I am never bored with you.”

“Must be all the running around.”

“Probably.”

Their hands locked.

“Are you going to show me all the way one can have sex?” he asked, feeling oddly smug.

“Not tonight." he looked up at him. "Don’t pout.”

“I am curious.” Protested Sherlock.

“Eventually. We can experiment a lot.”

“I like that.”

“You don’t say.”

 

 

 _Well, is it dark enough?_  
Can you see me?  
Do you want me?  
Can you reach me?  
Or I'm leaving

 _You better shut your mouth_  
Hold your breath  
Kiss me now you'll catch your death  
Oh, I mean it  
Oh, I need this.

_  
_

“You made me happy, Sherlock. I didn’t think I could ever feel this way.” John confessed against his skin that night.

“You speak your heart only after coitus, don't you,” muttered Sherlock, caressing the doctor’s hair.

“You are right, I do.”

“Does it mean I am the only one who will know your heart?”

“I guess it does.” He smiled, blissful.

“Sounds like a wonderful adventure.”

“You make it sound so exciting.”

“Trust me, it is.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song belongs to Natalie Merchant, and I do not own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson


End file.
